


Warm in November

by toasty_keeg



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Everything is soft, Fluff, Gender-neutral Reader, Holding Hands, Kissing, Multi, No Angst, Reader-Insert, Sharing a Bed, Sleepy Cuddles, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, Well there's only a brief smooch but yeah, what else do i tag this as
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:33:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27880805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toasty_keeg/pseuds/toasty_keeg
Summary: It's a cold night, but you're comfortable and cozy next to Martin Blackwood. It's hard to sleep, though, when you can't help but marvel at how perfect and wonderful he is.In case you haven't guessed, this is a purely self-indulgent piece. Shameless self-insert to ease my touch-starved soul, because let's be real here, Martin is perfectly wonderful and there isn't enough reader-insert fanfiction about him.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Reader, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Reader, Martin Blackwood/Reader
Comments: 14
Kudos: 60





	Warm in November

The space heater is small, and while it doesn't necessarily heat the _entire_ space per se, it is certainly appreciated. It sits in the corner of the room, quietly whirring away, while you’re not sure whether or not you want to fall asleep. You tug the shared blanket your way, just a bit, and Martin mutters something unintelligible in his sleep before tugging back. Your head rests against his slumped shoulder, his skin warm beneath the worn T-shirt he wears to sleep. You want to slide your hand under his shirt where he’s warmer, touch his soft skin and the downy hair that patches over his chest, but you're afraid of waking him. It’s things like this that make you ponder staying awake just a little longer, these little details.

And how can you not ponder the little details; the mess of strawberry blond curls falling over his forehead, the relaxed curve of his mouth as he sleeps, the small indentations on his nose from where his glasses usually sit, the patchy stubble on his chin. The faint orange light of the space heater does little to illuminate the room, casting shadows over Martin’s fair skin and obscuring the freckles that pattern themselves over his cheeks and dot his nose. One hand holds yours, soft fingers limp with sleep but regardless entwined with your own, and you can’t help but tighten your hand around his, just a little.

Outside the room, you hear the click of the flat door unlocking. Jon must be home from another late night at the Archives. He’s quite the dedicated worker, a bit like you wish you could be, not going home until everything is finished and properly filed. Martin sometimes comments on how proud he is of Jon, to which you often chime in, leaving the archivist a bit flustered. He’s not the greatest when it comes to taking compliments, but that doesn’t stop the two of you from throwing them his way. 

His footfalls can be heard through the ajar door and down the hall, as he takes off his shoes and sets his work satchel onto the floor. There is the subtle creak of the refrigerator opening, he’s probably getting something cold to drink. Picking up on little sounds and figuring out what they mean has always been a small skill of yours. It began from memorizing the footfalls of your family members growing up, distinguishing the steps of your rather abrasive parents from those of your two siblings, and while you’re far from that less than savory household, the habit stuck around. 

Jon’s footfalls are often quiet, aside from when he’s wearing those proper work shoes that he so loves, the brown leather ones, with the heels that tap just the smallest bit. When he’s in socks or barefoot around the house, he’s almost impossible to detect, that is, until he stoops behind you when you’re on the couch, his chin resting atop the crown of your head and asking what you’re reading today. Martin, on the other hand, has a pinch of a scuffle to his walk. He’s a bit heavier than Jon, sometimes catching the creak of that one floorboard in the hall, which the smaller man often insists has never bothered him once. Every so often, he’ll notice himself scuffling when he walks, consciously make an effort towards more succinct steps, and end up falling back into his normal pace. 

The refrigerator closes, and near silence follows. What is he doing, you wonder briefly, before dismissing the thought, your focus moreso on relaxing and trying to fall asleep. A bit of the November cold wafted in when Jon opened the flat door, barely detectable, but it sent a chill over the exposed skin not covered by blankets or sleeping clothes. You curl closer to Martin, burying your face in the soft fabric of his shirt and wrapping your arms tight around his comfortable midsection. The man stirs in his sleep, mumbling something incoherent, pulling you nearer with one arm. Warmth blooms across your cheeks and your heart jumps a little in your ribcage — you will never tire of this — as you smile into his embrace.

“Bad dream?” he asks drowsily. Nightmares are fairly commonplace, seeing as the three of you work in a paranormal archive, but Martin always seems to know when you’re having one. He wakes you when you or Jon yell and thrash in your sleep, quickly interrupting whatever demons or entities are plaguing your dreaming minds. 

“Mmm no, Jon’s home.”

“What time is it?” Martin mumbles. He starts to fumble about for his glasses so he can see the small analog clock on the bedside table, but gives up when you just say “late”. It doesn’t need detailing, Jon is always awake at times when you’re sound asleep; numbers on a clock didn’t mean much in situations like this. 

The bedroom door creaks, just a tiny bit, when Jon enters. Light from the hall sneaks its way into the otherwise dim room, quickly dimmed when he closes the door behind him. He’s still in work clothes, thick jumper over a button-up shirt and gray plaid trousers that end just above the ankles. 

“How was work, hon?” you ask. 

“Same as it always is, too much to do and too little time in which to do it.” He sips at his mug - you still wonder exactly what it is - before setting it upon the bedside table. “The MacGuffin case is nearly impossible to follow up on, no records, no funeral details, nothing. I'll have to ask Basira about it tomorrow, maybe she can find something—”

Martin props himself up on one arm, rubbing at his eyes with the other hand. “It's late, Jon,” he says. “You can worry about all that in the morning. You need your rest, dear. Come to bed.”

“Very well.” Jon tugs off his jumper, unbuttons his shirt and steps out of his trousers. He picks up a shirt from the floor, one of Martin's, and throws it on over his undershirt and boxers. It is many sizes too large for him, hanging almost to his knees, but it's comfortable. Jon has never been one for proper pajamas, opting to sleep either in his daytime clothes when he's too tired, or stealing shirts from Martin.

Jon crawls into bed, the springs barely even creaking under him. Behind you, another blanket is tugged up, the smaller man cocooning it over his shoulders and curling around you. He's clingy, always has been after everything that's happened, which you are more than happy to accommodate. His bony arms wrap around your midsection, colder fingers brushing against an exposed stripe of skin, and you yelp out in shock.

“Jon! Your hands are _freezing_!”

Martin shifts a bit in his spot, pulling one of his blankets over you. “You forgot your gloves again, didn’t you?”

The smaller man pulls his hands back, rubbing his palms together and blowing on them in a meager effort to warm them. “I don't need gloves,” he grumbles, a bit stubborn as always. “Really, the cold doesn't bother me.”

You both know this isn't entirely true; Jon is cold all the time and has poor circulation in his hands. For some reason, though, he absolutely refuses to wear gloves when he goes out, opting to put his hands into his pockets. On colder days when you're out, you and Martin will swarm to either side of him, claiming his hands within your own, turning Jon into a blushing, stammering man.

With a quiet laugh, you turn onto your other side, taking Jon's frigid hands in your own, rubbing them together. The friction, along with his own heated breath, fixes the problem soon enough, so that when he tugs you close once more, there is no shock of cold. Jon tucks his head in your shoulder, limbs wrapped around you as if he's holding on for dear life. His hair is down; long and a bit messy, and of _course_ you tangle your fingers in it, carding them from his scalp down. 

He loves this. He will never admit it, never speak it aloud, but he loves this. 

Martin has moved in his half-asleep state, noticing when you turned over. He holds you close; he's the big spoon now, his soft body comfortable against your back, one arm reaching over you to rest upon Jon's shoulder. Jon sighs contentedly, a quiet “mmmhhh” coming from his throat. He tilts his head up to kiss you goodnight, a soft peck on the lips, the stubble that's not quite yet a full beard scratching your chin.

“Goodnight,” you murmur. 

There’s a not-quite-discernible mumble from behind you, Martin saying goodnight as well. Finally, comfortably nestled between the two of them, you allow yourself to close your eyes and rest.

**Author's Note:**

> It's orange juice. Jon is drinking orange juice.


End file.
